


Equilibrium

by nellipot



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, inspired by that red hoodie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 03:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14463702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellipot/pseuds/nellipot
Summary: “Your personal thermo regulator,” A smile in his words. He wondered if Armie heard how romantic that sounded.I waited patiently for a cold on set!timmy fic for approximately 3 minutes





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PillSlayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PillSlayer/gifts).



> for pillslayer/hopesprings/loml, just because
> 
> alternative title: homo-stasis

“Can you tell your teeth that the sun is out?” 

Timmy looked over to see Armie coming to sit next to him on the edge of his table (Elio’s table), his eyes rolling. He was shivering, slightly vibrating the worn wood he sat on, starting to chatter when he didn't intentionally contain himself. The man chuckled softly at him, scooting closer once he met Timmy's hopeful gaze, saw his fists crammed under his neck in an almost-prayer. 

“I’m in the shade,” Timmy laughed with a whine, the cold shaking the word into two syllables instead of one. He closed his eyes as Armie’s hand guided him into his chest by the shoulder, letting out a small sigh when his face came in contact with his neck. He was in _two layers_ and still unable to keep it together, and then there was Armie, barely half a shirt hanging off his body and completely at ease. His skin was _still warm_ despite this too, impenetrable to winds and clouds and rain like he was above it all, another thing to file as evidence for Armie actually being the sun.

“You better get your cold nose away from me or I _will_ scream.” Armie complained, jerking his head side to side. Timmy ignored him, their proximity was Armie’s _own doing_ , so he didn’t feel bad taking in the drag of their skin, his cheek clinging on the spots his hot breath was pooling in. Armie stopped his performance some point after Timmy wiggled a hand between his arm and his ribs, pulling him closer and resting a cheek on his curls.

“Mm, you’re good at this,” Timmy hummed into his skin, meaning it in more ways than one. 

“Your personal thermo regulator,” A smile in his words. He wondered if Armie heard how romantic that sounded. 

\--

It was night time. He was allowed to be cold at night time. 

“But we’re _indoors_ Tim.” Armie laughed, pushed him away only to step forward in the same second. The musk of wine was rolling off his tan skin, the only reminder that they were not alone, that there was chatter and laughter everywhere around them; more wine-smelling, like-minds (better: like-family) filling up the space. 

It was just his hands. Maybe a few goosebumps running up his arms. It was nothing, but Armie had noticed, taking him to the counter of half empty bottles when he saw Timmy pushing them up and down his thighs for friction. 

“This is a thing for you, isn’t it?” He meant the cold, so Timmy nodded, watched his hands get clasped and unclasped in Armie’s, blown on and rubbed between. Different words. Not those words. “I know a way to warm up.” Armie’s eyebrows waggled. He slid a bottle off the granite, pulled at Timmy’s cold fingers but dropped them after a second, not needing the touch to know he would follow.

They walked out onto the balcony and Timmy wrenched the bottle out from Armie’s armpit.

“You’re spilling!” 

He was too busy pulling a light out of his pocket and a cigarette out of another. The wine was sickly sweet – Timmy looked at the label, _Moscato, that idiot_ \- but he downed a couple more gulps, the bubbles curling in his throat. 

“You have terrible taste,” Timmy retched. Armie made him wait until the cigarette was out of his mouth to hear his response.

“Do I?” He blew, all smoke and mirrors. It was the wind. It was definitely the wind that just made his hairs stand straight up.

He ran a hand on his arm to push them back down, which made Armie frown and raise a finger up, beckoning him forward, his mouth still occupied. Timmy juggled the bottle for a second, not knowing if he should still be holding it, not knowing what this man would want from him when he got there (all three feet of – there – to get to). Armie just wanted to mimic his touch, the large, sure hand looking ridiculous rubbing circles around Timmy’s tiny elbow. 

Armie took the bottle from him, set it on the sill they were leaning on and got closer – all in one motion, all with one hand because the other was at his lips. 

“Can’t take you anywhere,” He muffled, holding Timmy to his body, tapping ash off onto the railing. Timmy curled his elbows between their chests, his head turned away from the the dark view of the garden below, and Armie rubbed his back, keeping him in a neck-lock so he could still reach his cigarette. There was something intimate about being multitasked. 

\--

Armie pulled at his hoodie strings as they walked toward the café. 

“Is this my contender?” He laughed, bumping him in the shoulder. It was early morning, the cobblestones catching the light of the sun as it rose higher in the sky, Timmy catching the light of Armie's bare legs, his shirt even swamping his thighs in comparison to his white shorts. 

“You’re irreplaceable,” Timmy replied, because his sunglasses were on. 

Armie stopped them, holding Timmy’s gaze softly and then mischievously, grabbing two handfuls of his over-the-swim-shorts sweats and pulling them up past his bellybutton, lifting Timmy in the process. Timmy squawked, kicking his feet in the air and clawing at Armie’s biceps. 

His jacket had fallen off one shoulder when Armie finally put him down, still laughing and looking illicitly disheveled. Armie pulled it up for him, the knuckle of his thumb brushing Timmy’s neck, and he took the other side in his hand too, crossing them to wrap him up tightly before letting them fall open again. Timmy watched him and laughed.

“Don’t be jealous of a red hoodie,” He felt bold, Armie could lift things out of him. He linked their arms together, rubbing his cheek on Armie’s warm cotton sleeve, taking the lead toward set, because Armie seemed to be dragging behind.

\--

“Not cold today?” So innocent and evil. 

“Please don’t,” Was all Timmy could muster. Armie’s grip on his bare stomach was white-hot, Timmy's face fiery with three hours’ worth of stubble burn and the embarrassment of his indiscrete…response…to what they were doing. He was sweaty between his legs, Armie’s large thigh a weight on top of him, a weight on top of his increasingly sensitive cock. He felt Armie squirm and he squeezed his arm in warning, already mortified enough without the extra stimulation.

“Hey.” Armie whispered, a thumb on his ear. “It’s me. I don’t mind.” It only made his cheeks warmer and he groaned. 

There were no excuses for this. He’d touched himself twice in preparation, which was difficult enough on it’s own. Armie wanted to come over, then sit under the awnings in the Piazza and drink espressos, then walk into the church they’d always said they’d walk into, then watch a street performer sing on a bench with one arm around Timmy’s shoulder, mistaking his restlessness for the usual cold spell. 

By the time he got home he only had an hour to shove two fingers inside of him, to plant his feet on the mattress, to arch up into his hand and moan all the things he wished he could say – _please, more, warm me up, not just in your arms._

“This is so…” Arousing? Humiliating? What more could he say that wasn’t already pressed onto Armie’s leg?

“Mutual?” Armie offered.

“What?” 

Armie moved for real now, turning towards him until there was the unmistakable feeling of a hard cock on his hip.

“Oh.” He tried to swallow, his breath catching in his throat. 

“How many windy balconies do I have to take you on until you realize I just want to hold you?” Armie sighed.

Maybe, if he laid perfectly still, he would never wake up from this.

**Author's Note:**

> this was so unrealistic. timmy probably _loves_ moscato.


End file.
